


Everyone Loves Something

by pommeideas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, deanmon, pining!crowley, season 10, some insight into crowley's complicated human feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 03:54:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13825929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pommeideas/pseuds/pommeideas
Summary: Dean has the King of Hell on a leash, and he knows it.





	Everyone Loves Something

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Everyone loves something](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/399951) by pommehina. 



> I wrote this in 2015 for the [Collectif NONAME](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Collectif_NONAME) prompt "you will be the death of me", but I just translated it from French after I took a renewed interest in spn. After watching s10 I thought _hey, why not explore the relationship between Crowley and Dean? there's definitely something there_ \- little did I know that we'd end up with a self-sacrificing demon. I guess when Crowley first laid eyes on Dean he was lost, heh?
> 
> The French version is definitely better than this one, which was not very well translated, I'm afraid.

you’re sitting in a corner of the bar, soft light playing in your hair, on your crimson shirt, and on your freckles, whose innocence never seemed so out of place. in your left hand, a tiny glass filled with translucent alcohol – you’re simply holding it between two fingers like you don’t want to break it. you could do it easily now, just close your fist around it and the cuts would instantly disappear from your flesh; just like you could break the thin neck of the girl your right hand’s absentmindedly caressing.

your whole life, you’ve been told that you were dead inside – well, this time, it’s true. and you’ve never felt so alive. because this time, your desires – simple, to tell the truth, and always so human – aren’t those things you feel ashamed of anymore, that you constantly push down while repeating to yourself that you shouldn’t want or have anything, that the purpose of your existence is to protect your little brother, and that you already failed too damn much. this time, you are free to enjoy the soft heat that’s radiating from the woman on your side as well as the one, a little harsher, of the thigh pressed against yours. you flash a smile full of promises to the man, but your eyes slid past him to focus on the small black-clad silhouette leaning against the counter, watching you from afar while sipping on a colorful cocktail, a delicate paper umbrella partially hiding his gaze.

he’s waiting for you.

he’s waiting for you to come back from the hunt, the young couple under your charm, he’s waiting for you to lead them to your room – but he knows that these two are yours alone. the triplets from yesterday were apparently satisfying enough for him to grant you some free time. or maybe it was the sight of your lips closing around him, who knows.

he’s waiting for you now and ever – you’ve got the king of Hell on a leash. with a simple wink you can send him in another room while you invite in _his_ king-size bed a couple of strangers who’ll probably never understand exactly what the hell just happened to them. nineteen years old, and you were already _best-night-of-my-life-Dean._ today you take an unhealthy pleasure in destroying and rebuilding their fantasies, carving in their bones an undying memory that will never be tarnished, sensations they will chase in vain until the end – and maybe even after, for all you know.

and you, so empty, so dark, you bury yourself in this illusion of fulfillment while somewhere behind the wall, your magnified image flutters under the eyelids of a red-eyed demon.

 

* * *

 

you’re aware of the power you have on him, despite all his outraged cries – _I’m not your bloody sidekick, Winchester!_ – despite his threatening tone when he asks you to join his ranks. you know he thinks he’s finally got you, that he dreams of you sitting on his right, in the throne room. you know how much he loves slipping the First Blade in your hand that doesn’t shake anymore, and how much he’d love to place on your lowered head a crown of gold and thorns. Lucifer wanted Sam to be the Boy King – but Crowley, he wants a Knight of Hell that would be his entirely.

the thought rips a smile from your unmoving body.

you’re the one that’s got him. you know it, and you take advantage of it. Crowley, the man who didn’t love anything, not his own son, not even his own mother, and certainly not his army of demons – Crowley chose you. for weeks now, he’s been following you from bar to bar, bearing with your fantasies, watching you down liters of alcohol that only start a small burn at the back of your throat now, observing you with a predatory glint in his eye when you smash the face of a man standing in the wrong place at the wrong time, discretely grinding his teeth when the eyes of yet another stranger light up at the sight of you.

it’s more than mere lust, more than the fleeting desires of a demon – you see the way he looks at you, and the sickening glow in his eyes that almost looks like _faith_. he follows every step you take, devoted, loving – so much that your own smiles have started to soften with pity.

poor Crowley – poor King, absent from Hell, losing his followers one by one; he’s convinced himself he has created and shaped a perfect being. he was the one who gave you the Mark, the Blade, the one who now thinks he can tell you what to do. he should know, really, how your abyss of a soul gives you infinite freedom. the meagre affection you feel for him won’t make a difference.

Sam will come for you – he always does – and the thought makes what’s left of emotions inside you stir timidly. you’ll fight back, of course, because you love the blackness of your eyes fiercely. but you won’t fight for the man who isn’t your King. you’ll leave him lying on a bed devoid of your warmth, and when it’s all over you will miss sex, violence, and death – but you won’t miss him.

you’ll leave him.

 

* * *

 

the King is longing. all Hell knows it, it’s laughable. the murmurs abound, and the quick looks toward his closed-off face, and the secret meeting between his closest counselors. you, up there, you’re living again – your brother and your angel brought you back, and despite the burning shame, despite the filth you’re covered in, it’s good to see them again. you only spare one thought for him, though, a vague regret, maybe – but the relief is too big; the pain of being human and alive again consummates you whole.

you laugh, love and ache with passion while Crowley’s tired eyes stare into space, seeing you differently - less weak, not held back by this conscience you keep trying to hide, by this sense of justice that tears you between the pathologic need to put your brother before everything, and the drive to save as many lives as you can. Crowley sees shared laughter, sweat and blood, and the corrupted carelessness that comes with the thrill of being bad.

he often gazes at your image on the screen – a memory that’s too human, the material proof of your past complicity.

and despite the sweet words of his mother, that caress and encroach him tirelessly, pushing him to betray you, forget you, hate you – he never yields, because you’re the one who set him free from her. you’re just a man, Dean, but it’s you who taught the meaning of the word “family” to the one who rules the kingdom of sinners.

he thought he was part of it, at last – this Family so beautiful and broken, one that doesn’t stop with blood. he believed, perhaps, that the ties of pleasure and manipulation were enough to chain you together. do you know, Dean, that he dreamt of spending the rest of his eternity by your side?

because the wrath, resentment and contempt you feel for one another don’t seem as impossible to forget as the need to be loved, instilled in his veins by dozens of needles. Crowley sees all of this within himself with a lucidity that comes from centuries of existence, and he knows, undoubtedly, that he’ll always come back to you. for your slightly crooked smile, your green, sometimes too dark eyes, the golden stubble on your jaw, and your mind – sharp and burning with despair and freedom –, for you, Dean, will be the one to cause his demise.

 


End file.
